


War Wounds

by gingersprite



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Cuddling & Snuggling, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Everyone Processes Trauma Differently And That's Okay, F/M, Fix-It, Nightmares, Past Abuse, Past Torture, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-28
Updated: 2019-05-28
Packaged: 2020-03-20 15:26:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18995371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gingersprite/pseuds/gingersprite
Summary: Sansa and Theon may never fully be rid of their ghosts, but at least they have each other.





	War Wounds

**Author's Note:**

> It's been a very long time since I wrote fic, and even longer since I posted it, but these two deserve it.

They both have nightmares. They aren’t special in that respect: no one who fought in the war for the dawn truly escaped the Others. But their nightmares are a whole other breed of monster unlike any other sleeper has known. It is a blessing and a curse to share such intimate trauma with another person.

Theon used to be a heavy sleeper, able to remain sleeping no matter the commotion around him. He still slept deeply, though not as soundly. Not all of his sleeping troubles could be blamed on nightmares, as his body still held echoes of his torture beyond the scars; he struggled to stay warm, and was prone to shakes brought on by nerves or fatigue. Maester Wolkan had also expressed concerns about how frequently he caught ill, but there wasn’t much that could be done besides keep his strength up and manage symptoms as they came. Milk-of-the-poppy increased the likelihood of stressful dreams, which is why he preferred to reserve it only for the nights when his aches were bad enough to keep from sleeping; even then he tended to resist taking it, unless Sansa noticed his pain and insisted. But for the most part, he always slept best when in his Queen’s bed.

When the nightmares came this night, the dreams were much of the same- bound on the cross, Yara ringed with fire, Sansa’s screams- but this time Theon also dreamed of drowning. The Ironborn do not fear drowning normally, but in this dream he was drowning on dry land, gasping and clawing at his throat as water filled his lungs while everyone around him gawks. The faceless onlookers suddenly all become Ramsay, a million pairs of eyes the color of dirty ice pinning him down, as the echo of his laugh fills the air. Theon tried to speak, beg for help, but water bubbled up and spilled from his mouth. Unlike real drowning, there was no moment of peaceful blackness; he just kept drowning, air all around him but unable to breathe.

Theon woke with a violent start, quaking and clammy with night sweats. Immediately he attempted several great, heaving breaths, choking with the desire to just breathe and keep breathing. The dream had followed him into the waking world and at first he didn’t recognize his surroundings. He flailed under the blankets and pelts that pinned him down, panting with the effort to free himself. 

“Theon?” A voice, heavy with sleep, managed to break through his cloud of terror despite its softness. Sansa’s light touch on his shoulder was enough to stop his thrashing, but the full body shakes continued as he struggled to remember where he was. His head spun as he desperately tried to draw breath.

“Theon, look at me, darling,” she said, a hand on his chin moving him to meet her gaze. Her eyes were still at half-mast, pillow creases on her cheek. “It’s only me, sweetling. We’re in our chambers, in Winterfell. You’re safe, we’re both safe.”

His breath hitched as he tried to grasp on to something real, head spinning with the effort. It was like he moved underwater, arms struggling against both the pressure all around him and the weight of his own bones to reach out to her. Sansa met him halfway, taking hold of his hands and using them to pull him in closer.

“Do you remember where you are? We’re in Winterfell, Theon, can I hear you say that?” Her thumbs rubbed firm circles on the backs of his hands, heedless of their continued twitching. 

“Wuh- um… Winterfell, I’m in Winterfell,” he responded obediently though his mouth felt full of cotton. Sansa hummed lightly at his answer and graced him with a delicate smile. Her fingers still hadn’t stopped their ministrations, the light pressure helping to slow the shakes and keep him focused.

“Yes, very good, darling. And you remember your name, as well, yes?”

“It-it’s Theon, I’m Theon, Theon, it rhymes with- no, no, _no!_ ” He caught himself before he could fall back on that hated phrase, concentrating instead on what he could feel in this moment. The collar of his nightshirt against his neck, the downy soft furs on their bed, the ring he wore on a chain warmed by his body heat pressed against his chest. And all around him was Sansa, her legs tangled with his own, the gentle squeeze of her hands, the warm puff of her breath. Her presence nourished him, providing him with a well of strength to draw from as he tried again. 

“I don’t need that, I don’t need that, I don’t need that, I know my name, my name is Theon, it’s Theon, Theon, I’m Theon.”

The echo of Ramsay’s voice that lived in the back of his head dissipated with every repetition of his own name. Sansa gave him an encouraging nod and pressed a quick kiss to their joined hands.

“That’s right, love, your name is Theon, and no one can take that from you. It is yours. Do you hear me, Theon Greyjoy?” There was an edge to her voice now, but not the kind that set him on alert; this was the voice she used to demand the North’s independence from the dragon queen, and to shut down any lords who protested against the appointment of an Ironborn as her Hand. This voice may have spelled trouble for others, but it only ever made Theon feel safe. “He does not get to have you. You are your own man and you have freely given yourself to me, body and soul, just as I gave myself to you.”

That was enough to finally shake off the nightmare’s remaining hold over him. Theon Greyjoy may be a prince of the Iron Islands, occasional ambassador from the North, and Hand of the Queen, but Sansa Stark is the Red Wolf of Winterfell. Knowing that he was under her protection brought him greater security than a hundred castle guards ever could. 

At last his breath slowed to a normal pace and the tightness in his chest loosened. He let his maimed hands relax, feeling a dull ache in the fingers from have gripped tightly to Sansa’s. Seeing him calm, she extricated one of her hands and brought it to his cheek, gently stroking the jaw muscle he’d tensed in his fear.

“There you are, darling,” the voice of the Queen in the North had gone quiet: now she was just Sansa. “Back with me?” He answered with a short nod, concentrating on keeping his breaths slow and even.

“Aye, that was a rough one. Thank you, Your Grace.” Any other time she would have protested him thanking her for simply taking care of him, or for calling her ‘Your Grace’ in the private of their chambers, but they had both come to understand that it was best to just let some things be in the aftermath of a night terror. Theon pressed his cheek into her cupped hand and let out a soft sigh, his features relaxed as the dream dissipated. He let his eyes close, and for a moment Sansa thought he was ready to go back to sleep, when he spoke up again.

“In my dream, I was drowning.”

“But, you aren’t afraid of drowning?” Sansa noted, before realizing the absurdity of such a statement. Theon’s eyes opened in response and his familiar smirk graced his face for the first time that night.

“Ah but of course, thank you for reminding me, Your Majesty! Surely it’s a wonder I’d forgotten so!” The earlier fright fell away in favor of him jokingly admonishing her. Sansa groaned at his teasing and rolled onto her back, covering her grin with the crook of her free arm but keeping their clasped hands together. He snickered at her dramatics and wiggled closer to kiss her cheek. She moved her arm just enough to reveal one eye with which to shoot him a glare.

“You enjoy testing my patience, don’t you, Lord Greyjoy?” His smile only widened, and he pressed his nose against her neck and planted kisses on her collarbone until she gave up the farce and giggled. Theon gave a contented little sigh and rested his head in the juncture where her neck met shoulder. From this angle Sansa could no longer see his face, but she knew he was awake and thinking about what he wanted to say next by the way he squeezed their joined hands. Sansa wouldn’t push him to talk about his nightmares, though she suspected he wanted to. It was best to just let him tell her in his own time, rather than press.

“In my dream, I was drowning while on land. There were people all around me, but they couldn’t help; they just watched. Then everyone turned into _him_ , and they laughed, and it was _his_ laugh-” he cut himself off with a quick intake of breath, some of the prior tension returning as he recalled the dream. Sansa sighed and pressed a kiss to the top of his head, night sweats be damned.

“That sounds dreadful, truly. I’m glad it’s over.” Theon hummed in agreement with her, further burrowing his face into her neck. Loose wisps of hair that escaped her long plait during the night now tickled his nose. “Thankfully the gods keep such matters resigned to the sea.”

“They don’t, always. The Drowned God’s reach is farther than some assume.”

Sansa frowned and shifted them so she could determine if he was jesting or not.

“Are you trying to tell me one can drown on dry land?” His expression when he met her gaze was nothing but genuine.

“It’s true, the priests call it ‘dry drowning’. They say it happens when the Drowned God feels He is owed a soul that failed to drown proper: He makes the seawater left in your lungs increase without you even knowing it, until it’s too late. Old women say it mostly happens to children, and that’s why the Ironborn are taught to swim practically from birth, so we grow up knowing how to hold our breath and don’t risk bringing on a dry drowning.”

Now it was Sansa’s turn to shiver at the thought, imagining such a harrowing condition. Theon murmured apologetically and pressed his free hand to her cheek, mirroring their earlier position.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have told you such things so late at night.”

“No, I’m glad you told me,” she insisted. “I’d always rather you tell me what ails you, than suffer in silence.” He could tell by the stubborn jut of her chin that she meant what she said, and wouldn’t tolerate any more apologies for the night terrors he couldn’t control. So instead he acquiesced, giving her a nod and a smile; the kiss she bestowed on him in return was triumphant, but no less loving.

The fog of the dream now gone from his brain, he became aware of the gross veneer of his nightmare-induced sweats and knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep comfortably until he cleaned a bit. Beside him, Sansa was fading fast, her eyelids drooping. She roused a bit when he pressed a kiss to their clasped hands before attempting to pull away.

“I’ll be back, I just need to clean up; surely Her Grace doesn’t want a sweaty bedmate?” Sansa hummed in acknowledgement, despite her instinct to pull him close to her.

“‘Her Grace’ will take you exactly as you are, no matter what,” Theon’s breath hitched at her words; she said such things so easily, as if she could never imagine a world where she didn’t love him, and he didn’t love her back. Her eyes were closed so she didn’t see his expression, but she still gave him a light smirk before teasing, “but she’d certainly appreciate it if you freshened up a tad.”

He chuckled before extracting himself from the furs and her grasp, careful not to put too much pressure on his bad foot after several hours of no movement had stiffened it. Theon kept a crutch by the bed for bad days when he needed the extra support, but for now he was fine hobbling the short distance to the en suite for a quick wipe down and to change into a dry shirt. By the time he returned to their bed Sansa was asleep again, but somehow still aware enough to curl into his body, two pieces that found a way to fit together.  


\---

  
Sansa didn’t often dream of her time as the Bolton Bastard’s wife. She had already spent many a waking hour reliving the terror and abuse Ramsay inflicted upon her, and had found that she was more likely to be visited by such memories during one of these waking dreams than while she was actually asleep. More often she dreamed of that horrific moment Ser Ilyn Payne’s sword ended her father’s life, and with him her innocence. For weeks after the original event she constantly saw it in her dreams, the memory played over and over again until she even started to see it during the day. The dreams didn’t stop until other, fresher terrors came to take their place, but even now she suspected she’d never be rid of that first awful nightmare.

Her most frequent nightmare seemed to have been inspired by her and Theon’s flight through the snow. The bare bones of the dream were always the same- the cold air stabbing daggers in her chest with her limbs growing heavier by the moment, as she waited to be caught and killed, or worse, dragged back to Ramsay- but often the elements changed in some way. 

Sometimes the jump from the ramparts would kill Theon and she’d have to leave his broken body behind and try to make her own way. Sometimes the howling wind would morph into the baying of hounds, the sound swirling around her until it overwhelmed every other sense. Sometimes that first step into the river would see the water turn to solid ice, leaving her trapped no matter how hard she fought. Sometimes they would just nearly make it to Brienne, only for Ramsay to appear and grin that horrible smile, sic his dogs on them, and _laugh_.

Those events, of course, never happened; she survived, and so did Theon, and while they were separated for a time they eventually found their way back to each other. She’d killed Ramsay Bolton, giving him just a taste of the terror he’d put her through, and took back her home. It wasn’t much, but in the wake of these nightmares this logic was like a precious jewel. She could grasp hold of it, and remind herself that despite all that she’d suffered, she still survived.

Perhaps this coping method was why the dreams that terrified her the most were of events she herself had never lived through. Robb and her mother, butchered by the Freys; Arya lost in foreign cities at the mercy of strange men and their magics; Jon, betrayed by his brothers in arms; Bran’s journey through the North, and the changes it wrought on her sweet brother; baby Rickon in the wilderness, cold and hungry and terrified; Theon at the Dreadfort, broken down piece by piece. As she hadn’t been present for these events herself, her mind filled in the gaps, painting visions of the suffering inflicted on her family in lurid detail. She couldn’t say which was worse, to bear witness to a loved one’s pain or be left to imagine it, but the aftermath of the latter was much harder to shake off than the former.

When she woke this time, she knew instantly where she was, but she struggled to remember when. Sansa felt the warm puff of another’s breath on the back of her neck, and the press of a body against her back, and the weight of an arm around her middle pinning her to the bed. Her limbs refused to obey her commands, her body was filled with wet sand, her lungs struggled to take in air; but she found the scrap of strength necessary to speak.

“Please,” she sobbed, “please let me go, just let me go, I’m sorry, please, I’m sorry, don’t hurt me, please-” Those first words gave her the courage to continue, and she repeated her pleas louder and louder until the person behind her stirred. Almost instantly their touch lifted, and she was freed; the only sensations she felt were her shift against her skin and the blankets keeping her warm. The relief was instantaneous: she could finally breathe, and with the return of her breath came control over her limbs and the wherewithal to move them.

There was a shuffling as her bedmate put more space between them, eventually leaving the bed entirely and circling around to her side. He kneeled down so as to not loom over her. The embers in the fireplace didn’t cast nearly enough light to see by, but now that her panic had yielded to her wits she knew that face immediately.

“ _Theon,_ ” she breathed, her eyes carefully searching those beloved features for any fresh damage. There, of course, was none: he was groggy, and his curls were sleep-mussed, but he was fine. He was safe. And as she took stock of her own body, she confirmed that she was safe as well. Theon kept back as she did so, giving her the space to process.

“Are you back with me, Sansa?” he asked her softly. There was no judgement in his eyes, and he showed no ire at having to climb out of bed so abruptly, even though she knew that kneeling so must have pained his bad foot. His only concern was making sure she felt secure. In that moment she was suddenly overwhelmed by the love and care this man had for her, and while in the throws of her nightmare she couldn’t get him away fast enough, now she suddenly felt she’d die if forced to spend another second separated from him.

“Hold me?” Sansa whispered, reaching out to him with a trembling hand. No sooner were the words out of her mouth that Theon climbed back into bed and slipped under the covers. He wrapped his arms around her and pressed the entire length of his body to her front, but it wasn’t close enough. She squirmed, attempting to rearrange them better.

“Up.” Theon let her move them both to her liking without complaint, putting everything entirely in her hands. He ended up sitting leaned against the headboard with her in his lap, cradling her like a child. One arm wrapped around her waist, the hand splayed across her lower back, while his other hand stroked her hair. Sansa snaked her own hands under his shirt and pressed against his ribs, feeling ropey scars over corded muscle, savoring the heat of him. She burrowed her nose into his collarbone and inhaled his scent, laid under a combination of the fragrant liniment he used on his scars and her favorite herbal soap. 

She released the held breath with a shudder, which eventually turned into full-blown sobs. The dam now broken, the terror that had consumed her rushed back in full force and she couldn’t find the energy to hold it back anymore. These tears were vicious, ugly things, each cry ripping its way up from her chest and making her gasp and shake with the power of them. The pads of her fingers scrabbled for purchase along Theon’s sides, as if she could only pull them close enough so they could never be parted. In response he didn’t say anything, merely rocked her in his arms and softly hummed to remind her that he was there.

This was nothing like the delicate weeping of fair ladies in the songs, this messy scene that made her eyes swell and her nose leak: it was better, because it was real. Sansa had been forced to spend so many years hiding behind a mask of strength, never allowed to admit weakness for fear of being taken advantage of. Now, though, she was free to be weak. She could be calm and strong for her people, then break down in the safety of Theon’s arms, knowing he would never judge her.

Only after her sobs petered out to ragged breaths and the occasional hiccough did Theon venture a soft, “better?” 

Sansa nodded, a jerky bob that announced the oncoming post-cry headache, and released her vice-grip on him so she could wipe her eyes and nose on her sleeve. Theon tutted lightly, kneading the base of her neck to release some of the tension. Without stopping his ministrations, he reached over to the side table and brought back the small jug of water for her. She eagerly took it and unstopped it, allowing a brief smile in gratitude before drinking deeply. Some of the pain in her head eased and the knot in her stomach unclenched. Theon returned the jug once she’d finished and brought his hand back to her hip, making firm strokes with his thumb that turned into wide sweeps up and down her spine.

“I hate that this happens,” she finally croaked out. He started to protest, which she stopped with a quick shush before continuing, “I hate that this happens, but the way you treat me after always brings me peace.”

“Oh Sans,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to her hot brow. “If I can only bring you a fraction of the peace you give me, I have done my duty.”

“Aren’t we quite the pair?” she chuckled humorlessly. “The Prince of the Iron Islands and the Queen in the North, still tormented by our ghosts. Sometimes I wonder if we’ll ever truly be free of them.”

“We are, love. Every day that we’re together, living and breathing, is proof of our victory over them,” Theon murmured, cupping her cheek and drawing their gazes together. “These are just war wounds. We should never be ashamed of them, though sometimes it’s hard not to be.”

Sansa blinked in surprise at this unexpected wisdom. “And when did you become so wise, Lord Greyjoy?”

“I haven’t a clue what you’re talking about, Your Grace, I’ve always been this wise,” he quipped, and for a moment she saw a glimpse of the smiling boy he’d been before her father took her South. 

“Oh, so I suppose it was Robb or Jon’s idea to pull _that_ prank on Septa Mordane when the three of you were twelve? The one with the chicken?”

“But of course!” he laughed, and she closed to her eyes to better soak in the sound. For a time after that he simply held her and stroked her hair as the last of the tension brought on by her night terror faded.

“Do you think you can sleep now?” Theon murmured in her ear. She hummed her assent, and he laid her back down besides him and tucked the furs securely around them both. 

Sansa was right: they were quite the pair, and she thanked the gods for it.

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me on tumblr at gingersprites, hit me up there for more of my bullshit.


End file.
